


Home For The Holidays

by Angstqueen



Category: Counterstrike (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:59:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angstqueen/pseuds/Angstqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team gets an unexpected break at Christmas. Sinclair suspects Stone's plans aren't what the man told them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home For The Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Neon Rainbow Press zine The Yuletide #2 under the pen name Alexa Purcell. I decided to dust it off and add it to the collection here at AO3. 
> 
> This fic includes the whole team at the beginning but the focus is on Stone and Peter.

  

"Good work, people," Alexander Addington congratulated his team.  "I have to admit even I wasn't sure you'd be able to get the job done before the holidays."  The industrialist limped behind his desk, sitting down heavily in the chair.

"Offering to give us time off at the holiday if we _did_ , provided tremendous incentive, sir."  Peter Sinclair shared smiles with his teammates, all seated comfortably in the plush, Paris office.

"Yes, I'm sure it did," the older man smiled.  "And to show you how much I appreciate what you've done…  Ms Previn, if you would?"  He held out four sealed envelopes to his assistant.

"Of course."  Helene distributed the envelopes to the three team members and J.J. before taking a seat next to Gabrielle on the sofa.

"What's this?  Our walking papers?" Stone asked, inspecting the package.

"Stone!" Gabrielle protested, as Peter glared at him.

"Hey, I was just kiddin', folks."  The ex-Navy SEAL held his hands up in surrender.

"Yes, I'm sure you were," Addington chuckled, too full of good cheer to take offense.  Waving his cane in their direction, he said, "Go on, open them up."

Four surprised gasps assured him of the reception of his little surprise.

"Mr. A—"

"Alexander—"

"Sir, I don't—"

"Mr. Addington—"

He waved their protests aside.  "You've all done exceptional work for me this past year, and I want to acknowledge that fact.  Now, tomorrow is Christmas Eve.  I don't want to see any of you back here until January second.  Ms Previn, Bennett – that goes for you, too."

"Mmm, a week off," J.J. mused, rubbing his hands together.  "It's gonna feel good."

"I agree," Sinclair said.  "Where will you go?"

"I've got family in Detroit O haven't seen them in awhile."  The young black pilot grinned.  "What about you?"

"Oh, I imagine I'll spend it in London.  What about you, Gabrielle?"

Addington leaned back, happily listening to the holiday plans.

"With my parents, of course."  The journalist continued, "They've been asking when I'll come for a visit.  What better time?"

"Guess Suzanne'll be home, eh, Mr. A?"

"Yes, and I'm looking forward to it.  The holidays should be spent with people you love."  Addington narrowed his eyes, studying the ex-SEAL more closely.  "You haven't said what your plans are, Mr. Stone."

The man suddenly became engrossed in picking lint off his clothes.  "Uh, I'll probably fly to Philly, spend some time there."

Something about his statement didn't ring true for Sinclair, but he didn't pursue it.

"Very well."  The industrialist clapped his hands once.  "Since I know you're all eager to be off making arrangements, you're free to go.  Have a happy Christmas, and I'll see you all back here on the second."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

As they entered the lobby, J.J. turned to Stone and Peter.  "Mr. Addington's given me permission to use the jet to get home.  I could drop you guys off along the way, if you like."

"That'd be great, J.J.," Peter agreed.  "When're you leaving?"

"I'd like to be in the air first thing tomorrow morning, if that's okay with you," the pilot admitted.

"Pick me up at five, then."  Turning to his companion, Sinclair prompted, "Stone, what about you?  Save you the hassle of a commercial flight on Christmas Eve."

"Thanks, but no thanks," the other man said, clearing his throat.  "I've got some things to do first."

"Okay, see you tomorrow, Pete.  Happy holidays, Stone!"  J.J. waved, walking out the door.

"See ya, J.J.  Same to you."

Peter took a closer look at his partner.  "You okay, Stone?  You look a bit off-color."

"Yeah, I'm okay.  Maybe a bit tired."  The other man shrugged.

Sinclair frowned.  Usually his friend wouldn't even admit that much.  But he knew not to push.  Stone could take care of himself just fine.

"Well, get some rest.  God knows you deserve it.  We all do."  Peter slapped his companion lightly on the shoulder as they walked toward the door.

"Yeah, thanks.  You said you were heading to London.  Gonna see Claire?"  The ex-SEAL grinned.

"Maybe," Sinclair answered noncommittally.

"Well, if you do, give her my regards."

"I'll be sure to pass them along, Sport."

As they parted to head for their vehicles, Stone called, "Hey, Pete!"

The other man turned expectantly.

"Merry Christmas, pal.  See ya next year."

"And to you, Stone.  Try to stay out of trouble, eh?"

"I always do!"  The ex-SEAL winked before turning and climbing on his bike.  Revving the engine, he pulled out into traffic and sped off.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Christmas Eve, or, rather, the morning of.  Stone groaned, rolling over onto his stomach to bury his face in the pillows in an attempt to block out the early offending light.

It didn't work.

Well, it did, but the movement made him nauseous.  The kind of overwhelming nausea that left you only one option.

He made it to the bathroom, retching until his stomach muscles protested the abuse.  When he judged it safe, he struggled back to bed, crawling in and shivering.

_Flu_ , he recognized fuzzily, curling into a ball to warm up.

Well, at least he didn't have any plans.  He could stay in bed and ride it out.  Not the way he'd wanted to spend his first vacation in years, but it didn't look like he had any choice.

A half-hour later the need to again use the bathroom pulled him from restless dreams.  He staggered to the bathroom, belatedly realizing this bout was going to be tough to shake.

When he could, he pushed himself to his feet, walking unsteadily to the thermostat and turning it up.  Pulling another blanket from his closet, he left it folded in half before placing it on the bed.

His pounding head made it hard to think, but he knew he needed to get some fluid into his system to replace what he'd lost so far.  Taking it slow, he shuffled into the small kitchenette, opening his refrigerator door.  Beer.  Plenty of it.  His stomach turned at the thought.  The fruit juice met with the same reaction.  Pepsi. He could have sworn he had some Pepsi…  He couldn't remember opening it, so it had to be in the cupboard.  Finding and lifting it down along with a glass, he poured himself a small amount.

Shuffling back to bed, he set the glass on the nightstand.  Then he pulled open the drawer, digging out the small bottle of Tylenol he always kept handy.  He swallowed two before sinking back gratefully into the bed, dragging the blankets up around his chin.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

And so the cycle continued throughout the day, each time spent in the bathroom leaving him more exhausted.  He tried the soda, but found he couldn't keep that down for long either.

Throughout the day his phone rang several times, but he had no energy or interest in answering it.  He admired the caller's persistence for the first two times, but on the third pulled the plug out of the wall.  Maybe now he could sleep.

He woke well into the evening to someone pounding on his door.

"Stone?  C'mon, I know you've got to be in there.  Open up the door."  Again the pounding.  "Stone!"

"'S open," Stone croaked, recognizing his partner's voice.

He didn't know whether or not Sinclair heard him, but the other man tried the door, gaining easy access.  Locking it behind him, Sinclair located the light switch and flicked it on.

A smothered groan from the bed made him whirl.  With a sense of shock, he realized his partner lay curled under the mountain of blankets.  The room temperature felt nearly tropical, yet Stone needed more heat?

"My God, Stone.  What the hell—?"

"Flu," the other man rasped, wincing as he swallowed.

"Ah.  No wonder you weren't answering your phone," Sinclair mused.  Taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves, he approached the bed with purposeful strides.

"That was you?" Stone asked in disbelief, coughing.  "Why the hell did ya keep calling?"

The blond shrugged.  "My plans fell through with Claire.  I thought— Hell, I figured if you weren't doing anything, maybe we could spend the holiday together."

"Said I was going to Philly," the ex-SEAL muttered.

"Yes, I know."  Sinclair answered softly, perching on the edge of the bed.  "And I also know that you're not welcome in your old neighborhood anymore, thanks to your work with the team.  Did you think no one remembered?"

Sighing, the other man rolled onto his back.  "You stay here, you're gonna catch it, too."

Striding to the kitchenette to find a clean dishrag, Sinclair ran it under cool water before returning to the bed and gently placing it on his partner's forehead.

"Maybe.  Let me worry about that."

"You're crazy, Pete," the other man protested.

"I think that's my line, Sport."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

As the evening progressed, Stone's condition worsened.  The fever climbed to 104 degrees, he still couldn't keep anything down and the harsh cough continued.

Around three a.m., Peter said, "I think we should consider taking you to the hospital."

"No.  It always gets worse before it gets better," the other man wheezed.

"Stone—"

"If I ain't better by morning—" the ex-SEAL ground out from chattering teeth.

"If you're not better by dawn I'm calling an ambulance," Sinclair quietly promised.

"C'mon, Pete.  It looks worse than it really is," Stone tried to cajole his partner.

"Well, from where I stand, it looks bloody damned bad!"

Meeting Sinclair's worried blue gaze, the dark-haired man smiled weakly.  "Hey, don't worry, Pete.  I ain't about to let some flu bug punch my ticket.  Takes more than that."

"I should hope so."  Peter wiped his friend's face with a cool washcloth, wringing it out into a bowl before placing it on Stone's forehead.

"There _is_ something else we can try to get the fever down."

"What's that?"  At this point, Peter knew he'd try anything.

"Ice packs here," pointing to his groin and under his arms, "and here.  Cools the blood down."

"Okay.  It's worth a shot."  Sinclair got clean dishrags and wrapped ice in them before returning to his partner's side.

Stone grimaced as the cold made contact with his fevered skin, but said nothing.  One word and Pete would pack him off to a hospital.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

For Sinclair, the night dragged on endlessly as he kept vigil.  He dozed occasionally, but every movement or sound from the bed brought him awake to check on his companion.

Somewhere around two a.m., Stone croaked, "Pete… gonna be sick…"

Sensing the other man wouldn't make it to the bathroom in time, Peter grabbed the trash can he'd strategically placed near the bed.  Handing it to his partner, he sat next to him, wincing as Stone's stomach tried to turn itself inside out.

When the heaving finally stopped, Stone let the trash can drop the few inches to the floor before rolling over onto his back.  "Christ…"

"Hang in there, pal," Peter said sympathetically.  Climbing to his feet, he grabbed the can, taking it through to the bathroom and cleaning it carefully.  That done, he got fresh ice for the packs, then put some crushed ice in a glass, returning to the bedside.  Helping Stone to sit up, he raised the glass to his lips.  "Take a little."

The ex-SEAL sighed as the cool liquid soothed his irritated throat.  "Thanks, Pete."

"How're you feeling?"

"Pretty rough."

"Yes, so I would imagine."  Peter helped his friend get settled with the ice packs.  As he rose to return to his chair, Stone reached out a hand, detaining him.

"Uh, listen, Pete…  Thanks for stickin' around.  I mean, I know this isn't the way you'd planned on spendin' Christmas."

Smiling gently, Sinclair returned, "Somehow I doubt it was how you planned yours, either.  Get some rest, eh?"

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

"One hundred."  Peter shook down the thermometer before wiping it with alcohol.  He'd been checking Stone's temperature every hour; finally, at six o'clock that morning, it had broken.  Though still elevated, it at least hadn't risen in the past two hours.  "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been run over with a truck," Stone admitted.

"Yeah, well, that's to be expected, I suppose.  You've still got a ways to go."

The ice had reduced the fever in combination with the dose of Tylenol that Stone had finally kept down.  He still had a headache and the congestion lingered, but all things considered, his condition had improved since the night before.

Sinclair climbed to his feet, stretching.  Crossing to the nearest window, he opened the shade, letting in a bit of the bright early morning light.  "Merry Christmas."

Stone didn't think the whispered greeting had been directed solely at himself. Studying his partner, still standing at the window, the ex-SEAL frowned.  Pete looked tired.  No, scratch that.  Make it exhausted.

_Yeah, well, he_ was _up nursin' you all night, pal._

Time he should have been spending in London with Claire.

"Hey, Pete," he croaked, surprised at how weak his voice still sounded.

The other man dragged his attention back to the present, turning to face his friend.  "Hmm?"

"I know it's none of my business, but why aren't you with Claire?"

Smiling tolerantly, the other man returned to the bedside.  "You're right.  It's none of your business.  But to ease your curiosity, and speed your recovery, I'll answer."  He chortled at Stone's look.  "To be honest, I don't know.  At a guess, she didn't get my message that I'd be in touch on Christmas Eve and made other plans."

"Tough break."

"Perhaps.  But after all, where would you be if I hadn't stopped by?"

"I been lookin' after myself for a long time, Pete," the other man asserted.

"I'm not saying otherwise, Stone.  I just think Christmas is a holiday that should be shared with people.  Not spent alone."

Stone shifted uncomfortably in the bed.  "Maybe I like bein' alone."

Sinclair perched on the edge of the bed.  "Nice try, Sport.  But you're a pack animal, not a loner."  At Stone's incredulous look, he pointed out, "You do your best work in a team."

The other man looked away, uncomfortable with how well the ex-detective could read him.  After all, they'd only been working together a few months.

"It wasn't always like that, y'know," he finally admitted.  "Growin' up in the 'hood, you don't trust many folks.  But then I joined the Corp, the SEALs."  He smiled reminiscently.  "Those guys taught me what family was all about.  I'd have given my life ten times over for any one of the guys in my unit."

Peter nodded; he knew his companion had served in 'Nam, and try as he might, he could never begin to imagine the hell it had been.  His worst experiences as a police officer paled in comparison.  Stone's next question pulled his attention back to the present.

"What about you, Pete?  No offense," Stone gave a wry grin, "but a cop isn't the first thing I'd peg you for.  Not with your background."

"Funny.  That's what my family says, too."

"Oops.  Guess I hit a sore spot, huh?"

Sinclair grinned.  "Not anymore.  I'm much more content doing what I am now than trying to fill my father's shoes."

Stone wisely chose not to pursue further, sinking back against the pillows and closing his eyes.  Exhaustion had crept up behind him again.  He barely stirred when Sinclair spread another blanket over him.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

He woke near dusk, alone.  Muzzily he wondered whether it was still Christmas.  Memories of a long-ago Christmas spent convalescing in a hospital unit in 'Nam played through his mind.

_Yeah, and if those guys could see me now, laid low by some damned flu bug!_

He belatedly wondered where Pete had gone.  Not that he could blame the guy for splitting.  Nurse-maiding wasn't his own idea of a holiday, either.  He shifted position, wrinkling his nose as he realized it'd been far too long since he'd showered.

"Whew, no wonder Pete left!"  Struggling with the covers, he managed to crawl out of bed, landing in a graceless heap on the floor.  Apparently he'd overestimated his strength.  "Damn!"

It took an eternity to get to the bathroom, and he sank down on the toilet with relief.  For once he found himself grateful for the room's small size as he reached out, turning the shower knobs on.  When the water had gotten as hot as he could tolerate, he undressed and stepped gingerly under the steaming spray.  With a sigh of relief, he relaxed, warming up for the first time in what felt like days.

He lost track of time, but the water had grown cooler when a knock at the bathroom door startled him.

"Stone?  Don't you think you've been in there long enough?  You'll turn into a prune."

"You sound like somebody's mother," the other man groused.  Nevertheless, he shut the water off, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around himself before stepping out of the shower.

"I had a good example."  Pete opened the door, poking his head in.  "Feeling better?"

"Yeah."  A tantalizing smell wafted in from the other room.  "What's cookin'?"

"Dinner.  I thought you might be hungry for some real food, and since you didn't have anything around that qualified, I did some shopping."

Stone froze in the process of towel drying his hair.  "Pete, you didn't have to—"

"Look, it's nothing elaborate, Stone.  I doubt your system could handle that, yet."  Sinclair tossed a track suit at his partner.  "Get dressed, eh?  Soup's no good when it's cold."

When Stone exited the small bathroom, the smell of food set his stomach rumbling.  Looking at his small table, he saw that Sinclair had set it for two.  His partner stood over the stove, stirring something.

"Smells good, Pete.  What is it?"

The blond turned, smiling.  "Chicken soup."

Stone chuckled.  "Let me guess, the corner deli down the street, right?"

Bringing the steaming pan to the table and setting it on a hot pad, Sinclair looked at his friend in surprise.  "How did you know?"

"The lady who runs it seems to have adopted me," the ex-SEAL admitted ruefully.  "I'm not here that much, but I always stop by when I am.  She's got the best food around."

"So it would seem."  Returning to the kitchenette, Peter brought back a loaf of French bread.  Breaking it in half, he handed a section to his partner.  "Enjoy, Stone."

"Thanks, Pete."

Sinclair watched, mildly amazed, as his partner proceeded to devour the food. He supposed he shouldn't be so surprised, considering the state he'd found Stone in. Lord knew when he'd last eaten a decent meal and kept it down.

"Go easy, Sport," he cautioned.  "You'll make yourself sick again, eating that fast."

"Guess I didn't realize how hungry I was," the other man admitted, already slowing his pace.

Sinclair savored his meal, enjoying the combination of fresh bread and the hearty soup, which contained more meat than he'd expected.  "Mmm, no wonder you make it a point to frequent her shop.  This is very good."

"Yep," Stone agreed, nevertheless pushing his plate away unfinished.  Despite his initial hunger, it hadn't taken long for his stomach to remind him of its limits.

Seeing the other man was finished, Sinclair reached down to pick up a paper bag resting near his chair leg.  Placing it on the table in front of Stone, he said, "This isn't much, but I didn't want to be empty-handed on Christmas."

"Gee, Pete—"  The ex-SEAL searched for words.  "You didn't have to get me anything."

"I know.  But I wanted to."  The blond smiled in anticipation.  "Go on.  Open it up."

Stone reached cautiously into the bag, withdrawing a box wrapped in brown paper.  Tearing it open, he stared at the contents for a moment before hearing his partner's voice.

"…thought these would be a great gift."  Sinclair beamed at his choice.

"Uh, Pete… I don't know what to say," Stone floundered.  Removing the socks to inspect them didn't help.  They were a bright, day-glo orange with alternating thin green and purple stripes.  The ex-SEAL wondered briefly if Pete had chosen the most obnoxious pair in the shop to offend him, but then reconsidered.  _After all, the man's tie collection speaks for itself!_

Which gave him the perfect idea for a gift, if he could only keep Pete in the kitchen for a short time.

"I hope you like them," Peter said.  "The shopkeeper didn't really have much of a selection, it being Christmas Day and all."

"No, they're great," the other man reassured.  "I never saw anything quite this color before."

He wondered if the somersaults in his stomach could be attributed to the rapid consumption of the meal or a direct result of the socks.  Not that it really mattered.  Either way had the same effect, and it took all his willpower not to bolt from the table.  It wouldn't help his plan any.

The reaction didn't go unnoticed.  "Stone, you all right?  You're looking a bit… green."

_Probably as green as those stripes._   Aloud, the dark-haired man admitted, "Guess I ate too much."

"Here, why don't you lie down while I clear away the dishes.  Maybe your stomach will settle."

_Perfect,_ Stone decided.  That gave him time to set his plan in motion, since the bed was not in line of sight with the sink.  He settled in, watching his friend clear the dishes and carry them to the kitchen.  Once he knew Pete's attention had been diverted, he cautiously rolled to the side of his bed, opening a drawer in his nightstand and taking out a piece of fabric.

He feared the squeak of the drawer closing would alert Sinclair, but the blond's tuneless whistling provided cover.  Careful searching of a second drawer produced a decorative gift bag, unused, and some tissue paper.  He wrapped the fabric in the tissue, then slipped it into the bag, setting it next to him on the bed.  He fought to keep the grin from his face.  It wouldn't do to give away the surprise.

Now all he had to do was wait.  _Might as well get comfortable,_ he reasoned, stretching out full length on the bed.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"There, all clear."  Fifteen minutes later Sinclair wiped his hands on the dishrag and spread it over the back of a chair to dry.

When he got no response, he turned to find his companion sound asleep.  Small wonder.  The past two days had been hell on top of finishing a physically demanding job.

If Stone kept his dinner down, which looked likely, Sinclair reckoned the other man could probably be left on his own tomorrow, meaning he could safely return home.  Oddly enough, the thought didn't fill him with any anticipation.  At least with Stone he had company; someone who understood the job without him having to explain.

Quietly settling into his chair, Sinclair watched his friend sleep.  As with most humans, slumber dropped years from Stone's appearance.  _What were you like as a child, my friend?  And when did I first consider you 'friend'?_

The truth of the realization troubled Peter at first.  He'd sworn after Luke's death that he wouldn't let any team member get that close again.  And yet Stone had with very little effort.

As he searched deeper, Sinclair found his peace with the idea.  After all, Stone's record spoke for itself.  Luke had been good, but he'd been brash, undisciplined.  Stone had proven himself to be a seasoned veteran, well able to look after not only himself, but whatever lives had been entrusted to his care.

His first impressions of Stone had not been favorable, but considering the circumstances of their meeting that was understandable.  Stone's government had left him in the cold on a dangerous operation; the man had no reason to trust anyone when Sinclair and Gabrielle had scooped him out of the firefight with Carlos and his men.

If only Stone had told them about Victoria.  Her death had marked the ex-SEAL, making it hard for him to accept a woman placing herself in a dangerous position.  Gabrielle understood his thinking, but fortunately refused to back down.  And gradually Stone learned to trust.

The object of his thoughts stirred, rolling onto his side and opening his eyes.

"Hey, Sport.  Feeling better?"

"Yeah, a little bit."  Seeing the bag still resting next to him, Stone sat up, resting against the headboard.  Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he pushed the gift towards Sinclair.  "Here, this is for you.  I, uh, wanted to give it to you earlier, but I guess I fell asleep."

Sinclair's face brightened as he reached into the bag.  Pulling out the wrapped parcel, he eagerly tore into it, removing the bright fabric within. 

"Stone," Peter began, inspecting the tie,  "I don't know what to say."  He held the mustard-yellow and kiwi-green paisley tie up, pinched between the edges of his thumb and forefinger.

"You don't like it," the other man guessed glumly.  He couldn't say he blamed the guy.  He hadn't liked it either when he'd received it as a gift from Scooter years ago… had to have been the 60s… but there was no way could he tell Pete that.

"No, quite the opposite.  I think it's marvelous.  And I've got just the shirt to wear with it."  Sinclair beamed at his companion.  "Thank you, Stone."

Glad the gift had pleased, yet inwardly groaning at the belated realization that he'd have to suffer seeing it now, Stone managed, "You're welcome.  And Merry Christmas, Pete."

"And to you."  Sinclair held out his hand, and Stone returned the clasp firmly.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Two days later, Stone knocked at the door of Sinclair's Paris apartment.  When he got no response, he tried again, louder.  Still no answer.  Frowning, he let himself in with the spare key.  He made a mental note to tell Pete to find a new hiding place.  Somewhere less obvious.

"Hey, Pete!  You here, buddy?  Your car's outside, so you gotta be around here somewhere—"  Hearing sounds from the bedroom, he went on through.  He thought he'd been mistaken when he didn't see Pete; then he heard the unmistakable sounds of a stomach emptying itself in the bathroom.

"Oh, boy," he muttered.

Hanging his jacket on a nearby chair and rolling up his sleeves, he knocked on the door to the bath.  Walking in without waiting for an answer, he found his partner huddled over the toilet.  When Sinclair noticed Stone's presence, he stared at the other man balefully.

"Some bloody damned vacation this turned out to be!" he croaked.

"Tell me about it!"  Stone gently pulled the other man to his feet, helping him back to the bedroom.  He got Pete settled comfortably before settling into a nearby armchair.

Sinclair laughed weakly, studying his companion.

"What's so funny?"

"You're not my idea of a nurse."

"Hey, beggars can't be choosers, pal.  And besides, I wouldn't classify you as _my_ ideal, either."  Stone arched an eyebrow to emphasize his point.

"Turn about's fair play, eh, Stone?"

"Yeah.  Something like that."  The ex-SEAL reached over, tucking the blankets closer around Sinclair's shoulders.  "Anything I can get for you?"

"No, I'm fine."  Sinclair fell asleep knowing that when he woke, Stone would still be at his side.

 

_It has been said that no man is an island.  For some, it is a truth that requires more than one learning…_


End file.
